


Bonjour, mon cher

by Rainbowfootsteps



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1600's setting, AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, FrUK, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-11 12:31:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 10,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4435586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbowfootsteps/pseuds/Rainbowfootsteps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur, a common thief, literally bumps into Francis, a mysterious stranger, his life is changed forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Meeting Of Chance

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope you enjoy this! Feedback would be much appreciated! I do not own Hetalia!

“Shit, I go to jail and you’re the one I have to share a cell with?” Arthur complained, banging his head against the stone wall he was leaning against.  
“Calm down, it’s not the end of the world. Yet.” The other man replied in a pleasant french accent.  
“I am curious - why were you running?”  
“Well..”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Arthur’s legs burned from exhaustion, but he couldn’t stop yet. The yells of soldiers behind him fueled what adrenaline he had left, and he put on a new burst of speed. The street was full of filth, horse droppings and even the odd skeleton, so his progress down the street was painfully slow. The streetlights washed everything with yellow and cast looming shadows which made evading the grime almost impossible.

“Fuck!” He’d dropped the necklace! That would have fed him for a few months at least. He grunted in annoyance. Nothing he could do now about that. At least he didn’t have to worry about being charged with stealing from royalty if he was captured. The woman he’d stolen it from wasn’t exactly of a regal background - she’d probably stolen it herself. Swerving around a corner, he saw a blur out of the corner of his eye. Oof! He fell to the ground with a thump. Looking up in confusion he saw he had run right into another man, who was also on the ground looking somewhat disgruntled.

“We’ve got ‘em!” A voice roared, and Arthur groaned. Bloody terrific. A rough hand pulled him to his feet, and he felt his hands being shackled behind him.  
“May God have mercy on your soul.” A voice growled behind him.  
“May he indeed.” He replied, with a quiet sigh.

“So it was your fault we ran into each other?” The frenchman asked, bemused.  
“No, you twit! It was your fault!” He snapped back. He sighed and began to pick at the hem of his shirt. His once white top was dark grey with ripped sleeves and covered in dried mud, as were his black baggy trousers. His shoes were barely visible under grime. He was a mess. He observed his cellmate curiously. He was dressed like a typical french gentleman, with a smart jacket and loose-fitting top with brown trousers and boots. He wore a positively ridiculous frilly ascot. He had moderately long blond hair in a loose ponytail (disgustingly feminine, Arthur thought), and blue eyes that seemed to look right through you. He certainly didn’t look like a thief.

“And why are you in here? Crimes against fashion?” Arthur queried waspishly. the other man raised an eyebrow.  
“I’ll have you know this is the height of fashion in France.” He retorted.  
“I… Let’s say I have friends who would rather sell me out than face consequences.” the man muttered.

“What’s your name, anyway?” Arthur asked, now interested in this mysterious gentleman.  
“Francis. et tu?”  
“Arthur.”  
“So English..” Francis muttered.  
“Got a problem with that, frog?” Arthur snapped, his hands balling into fists. This guy really ticked him off.  
“No, in fact the name suits you.” This reply surprised Arthur, who muttered back an angry insult. Instead of continuing this aggressive flinging of insults he looked out the small barred window. He could just see a sliver of the moon if he craned his neck. In the morning, he’d be dead. Nobody would miss him. He was just a thief.  
“Arthur.” He turned around and looked at Francis, who smiled devilishly.  
“What?” He snarled, and Francis closed his eyes. From an inner pocket he silently pulled out a dagger and dangled it between his index finger and thumb.  
“What if I told you we could get out of this alive?”


	2. A Great Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Francis visit the Golden Crow.

“You know what today is?” Francis whispered to Arthur, who grunted in reply.  
“What does it matter?” He muttered back, warily taking in his surroundings. They were standing in a town square, with a cobblestone path under them and white houses all around. A burly, black-robed man with a big nose and bald head glared at them, the axe in his hand glinting in the pale sunlight. A small crowd had gathered - mostly young men looking for some morning entertainment. A few children slipped in and out of the crowd. Thieves searching for a loose money purse. They would get little from a crowd like this, however; these were poor folk, adorned in dirty clothes that hung from their thin bodies. In front of Arthur was a wooden block with a round dip in it for him to place his neck on. How heartwarming.

“It’s the fourteenth of July.” Francis murmured with a grin. Arthur gave him a glare as if to say ‘who cares?’. Francis just smirked.  
“It’s my birthday.” He muttered. Arthur mouthed ‘you’re a prick’ at him, then was pushed towards the block. His hands were tied behind him so he couldn’t steady himself as he fell to his knees. Oh god. This was the end. What if Francis’s plan didn’t work? He forced air into his lungs, feeling panic creeping in. He felt his hair being grabbed, and gasped in pain as his throat was pressed against the wood. It was crushing his windpipe - he couldn’t breathe, his vision was tunneling.  
Oh god, oh god, oh god, o- THUCK.

Arthur slowly opened his eyes. He… wasn’t dead? He could hear screaming. What? Wait. It was coming from him. Oh, he was screaming because of the extreme pain coming from his upper right arm. His vision was blurry and he couldn’t concentrate, but he could hear other people yelling and running about. Suddenly someone cut the ropes on his hands, grabbed his left arm and pulled him to his feet. He was dragged away from the block. His feet caught on stones and he staggered clumsily after the man that was pulling him. He took a deep breath and looked up at his saviour. It was Francis, now looking frantic and holding a bloody dagger in his left hand. 

“Hurry up, or they will catch up!” He hissed at Arthur, who moaned in reply but tried to speed up his floundering.  
“Why the hell did you let him hit me?” He groaned as they ran down countless alleyways.  
“I didn’t intend to!” Francis replied defensively.  
“I misjudged how strong the ropes binding our hands were.” He muttered. Arthur was tempted to hurl back a snarky reply but a fresh blossom of pain made him clench his teeth to stop himself from yelling.  
“Where are we going?” He managed to gasp out.  
“I have many acquaintances in this town, mon ami.” Francis replied.  
“We are going to the Golden Crow Inn.”

 

The freezing cold and heavy smell of smoke made Arthur feel woozy. The Golden Crow was a small establishment, and mainly catered to the lower class. Old yellowing wallpaper covered the walls, on which small iron candle holders held smouldering candles. Old chipped tables were scattered about. There were only three other people in the room. Two of them were old men, covered in what Arthur hoped was mud, and were drinking some sort of alcohol in a corner. The other was a red-haired woman in about her forties manning the counter. She saw Arthur’s arm and her eyes widened for an instant, but a nonchalant expression was quickly back on her face. Francis smiled at her.

“excusez-moi, puis-je parler à Ludwig?” He asked politely. The woman squinted at him, then growled,  
‘le mot de passe?” This didn’t deter Francis, who replied,  
“Joan.” The woman spat on the ground and walked away through a door a ways behind her. Arthur heard her yelling more french to an unseen person, then she came back.  
“Through there.” She told them, and Arthur awkwardly thanked her and walked in after Francis. His shoulder still hurt like hell and his arm was soaked with his own blood, but he was too tired to yell anymore. Following Francis through a dark, cramped hallway, they eventually came into a small bedroom. 

It was bare except for a small bed, which a well-built man stood next to. He had blond hair and blue eyes, a serious expression and a small scar above his left eyebrow. He was somewhat well off if his clothes were anything to go by - he wore a smart white buttoned top with brown trousers and clean boots. If Arthur had passed him in the streets he would say he was either a carriage driver working for a kind and lucrative employer, or possibly an iron worker, if his strength was anything to go by.  
“We must get this man medical attention.” The man said after seeing Arthur’s arm, his voice carrying a distinct german accent.  
“This man is wanted for theft and if we take him to a doctor will surely be captured and sentenced to death.” Francis replied, gently guiding Arthur to the bed. He sat down on the edge gratefully and unbuttoned his shirt.

“Do you have bandages?” Francis asked the man, who nodded and left the room. He took great, purposeful strides. He limped slightly, however, favouring his right leg. After he had left the room Francis sighed slightly, and gestured for Arthur to take his shirt off fully so that he might inspect his wound.  
“Ludwig is a good friend of mine. We will be safe here for a short while.” Francis told Arthur as he gently wiped away blood using a pocket handkerchief. Arthur could now see that his injury was quite superficial, and not nearly as bad as it could have been.

“Ah! Be careful, you wanker.” Arthur hissed, digging his nails into the bedpost.  
“Why are you helping me, anyway?” He asked suspiciously. Francis made a grunting noise.  
“I couldn’t leave you there to die.” Was the short reply, but Arthur knew this wasn’t the full reason. He didn’t say anything else, however. Best not to annoy the only person keeping you alive. Ludwig returned to the room, passed Francis a roll of cloth, and quietly left.

“He’s a talkative one, isn’t he?” Arthur muttered, and Francis chuckled sadly.  
“He lost someone very dear to him to illness about five years ago. He has said very little since then.” Arthur felt a stab of guilt, and was quiet for a while. His curiousity got the better of him after a while however.  
“Where are you going to go after this?” He asked. Francis stopped wrapping the bandage around Arthur’s arm for a moment, his eyes misty.  
“I think I shall return to France.” He replied.  
“I have a beautiful house there.” This surprised Arthur.  
“So why are you in England?” He asked. Francis grinned.  
“The temptation of riches is very strong, and here in England one can… obtain power and money if they know who to talk to.” So Francis was like him. A thief - just on a much larger scale. Instead of stealing bread and pennies, he stole small fortunes.

“And what of you?” Francis asked with a smile.  
“Back to the streets of England?” Arthur glared at him.  
“You know.. I could get you out of this town and somewhere nicer, should you wish.” Francis murmured.  
“If you come with me you may choose which town you want to stay in as I travel through them. Plus, anywhere I should choose to, ah, obtain money-” He really didn’t like saying ‘stealing’, did he? “- then you would be entitled to a share of it.” The suggestion was very appealing, but Arthur was naturally suspicious.  
“Why would you help me? What’s in it for you?” He asked, more curiously than rudely.  
“The thought that I have done at least some good in my life?” Francis suggested, and Arthur couldn’t help but smile.  
“... Alright, but don’t think I’ll stay around any longer than I have to.”


	3. Steps In The Right Direction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Francis bid Ludwig goodbye and begin their journey.

“Merci, Ludwig, you are a good friend.” Francis shook Ludwig’s hand with a smile. Ludwig’s face had the ghost of happiness on it, but he grunted ‘Seien Sie vorsichtig’ and closed the door without a smile or even a nod. Francis started to walk down the dark alley - even though it was around noon barely any light filtered in between the large eaves of the houses above - and Arthur followed him, looking behind him ever so often.

“What a cold fellow.” Arthur muttered. Francis looked at him with an irritated glower.   
“You wouldn’t be singing to the flowers if you lost the one you loved most either.” Francis snapped.  
“How about all the ones you love?” Arthur snarled back with more anger than intended, memories he’d rather forget plaguing him once again. Francis was silent for a moment.

“Love can ruin the greatest man.” He murmured. His voice was full of sadness and grief. Arthur sighed quietly. What a day - first a near-death experience, and now he was wallowing in self-pity with a man he barely knew.  
“Where are we going?” He asked Francis, looking around. He couldn’t see the sun, but he assumed they were going south.  
“Brighton, eventually.” Francis replied.   
“But for now we’re headed to Oxford.”  
“Bloody big, isn’t it?” Arthur said in surprise.  
“We’re only going to stay on the outskirts and find a friend there who can organise some transport for us.” Arthur snorted.  
“How many ‘friends’ do you have?” He queried waspishly. Francis just smirked.  
“Enough.” Was the short reply.

Arthur yawned, the sun warming him and the monotonous sound of footsteps serving as a sleepy lullaby. They must have been walking for hours now - they were in the country, walking past quaint cottages and somnolent cows. Francis continued to set a fast pace, but Arthur was beginning to lag behind. Somehow Francis had managed to keep pleasant conversation going most of the time they had been travelling.

“Alright, Frog, tell me why you’re wanted by so many people.” Arthur asked him, lengthening his pace to keep up with the frenchman. Francis glanced at him.  
“I have killed many people.” He replied. It was impossible to guess whether he was joking, but his expression seemed serious. Arthur tried to hide his exclamation of disgust. Murder was, in Arthur’s opinion, absolutely despicable. He may have been a petty thief but at least he had morals.  
“If you get a question, I get a question.” Francis said.  
“If I were to suggest eating some apples off that tree, would you accept?” He pointed to a small apple tree a few metres ahead of them. This took Arthur by surprise, but his stomach decided for him. A low rumble gave away his hunger and he grinned.  
“Alright then!” They trotted towards the tree, which was laden with small but red apples, which hung just out of reach. The trunk wasn’t able to be climbed.

“Get on my shoulders.” Francis said suddenly.  
“What?!” Arthur gasped.  
“Do it! Or starve, I don’t care.” Francis retorted. Arthur grumbled ‘wanker’, but nodded. Francis kneeled down and Arthur awkwardly sat on his shoulders, wrapping his arms around Francis’s forehead to keep himself steady. Francis slowly stood and swayed a little, but quickly righted himself.

“Mon dieu, get them quickly before I fall over!” He cried, and Arthur couldn’t help but laugh. As they swayed back and forth he dextrously picked apples, his thin fingers easily snatching them as he wobbled past him. He was reaching for a fifth when Francis let out a yell and he toppled over, sending them both sprawling.  
“You’ll bruise the apples!” Arthur laughed, hugging them close to his chest. He stood up and threw two to Francis after he had got to his feet. For a few minutes they rested against the trunk, happily munching apples. Arthur smiled lazily, twirling a pip between his thumb and finger. Francis was actually a pretty good guy. And he hated to admit it to himself, but he was also rather handsome. In the light of the afternoon sun, his hair was gold and his eyes twinkled. Arthur could stay in this moment forever…  
“Arthur, run!”


	4. Death to Macbeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis gets character development.

What? Arthur looked at Francis with a confused expression.  
“NOW!” Francis barked, and it was then that Arthur saw the riders on horseback quickly approaching them. They were clad in black, and - the one in front was pointing a gun at them?!   
“SHIT!” Arthur yelled, sprinting down the road after Francis, who was checking all his pockets as he ran. BANG! The road near Arthur’s feet exploded. He yelped and ran faster. He could hear a faint voice from one of their assailants.

“Francis Bonnefoy, you are under arrest on charges of treason!” The man called.  
“How the hell did they know we were here?” Arthur roared at Francis, who had one hand resting on what Arthur assumed was a gun. That definitely hadn’t been there when they’d escaped from the prison cell together.  
“Ludwig must have been arrested and interrogated..” Francis growled.  
“What the fuck did you do, Francis?” Arthur yelled at him in fury. If he’d known Francis was in this much trouble, he never would have followed him! Francis motioned for him to stop, then he turned around to face the two horsemen.   
“We can’t outrun them..” He muttered quietly. Arthur inspected the two men. One looked in about his twenties, with a truly hideous hairstyle and a bruise on his cheek. The other was a bit older, with red hair, pale skin and a sneer on his face.

“Francis Bonnefoy and.. accomplice, you are sentenced to death for theft and murder.” The older man barked at them with a scottish accent. Arthur watched the gun barrel which was held steadily at his face.  
“Heh, this’ll look good on a medal. ‘Alistair Macbeth, for killing one of England’s most wanted criminals.’” Wait, what? Arthur looked at Francis with a mix of disgust and fascination.   
“Isn’t it lucky for me, my orders are to kill on sight.” Alistair said with a grin. He looked at Arthur with a leer. Arthur closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.  
“I’m sure to get a raise for this.” BANG! Arthur jumped. Opening his eyes, he saw Alistair look down at his chest in shock. A red patch was beginning to grow. He looked at Francis in shock, then slumped over on his horse. BANG! Francis shot at the other man, but he was already galloping away.  
“They always underestimate me, it’s positively insulting.” Francis murmured, beginning to pull Alistair’s body off the horse. Arthur stood frozen in shock. What the hell? His mind was bursting with unanswered question, fear, and above all, anger. With a roar he pulled his fist back and punched Francis square in the jaw, knocking him out cold.

 

“Sorry about that.”   
“It’s alright, I should have been straight with you from the start.” Francis said quietly, adding more wood to the modest fire. They were hiding in a barn as a storm raged outside, muffling any noise they made and the night wind chilling them to the bone. Arthur looked at the bruise on Francis’s face and felt guilt rising in him.  
“I might as well tell you why i’m on the run.” Francis murmured. Arthur looked at him curiously.  
“I was born into a rich family. I never needed anything, I was raised like a gentleman. But my love of riches and power has always put me in troublesome situations. I turned to a life of crime, swindling dukes and duchesses out of money, lying and cheating my way to fortune. Then it was stolen from me - thieving from a thief, how ironic.” Francis mused.

“I invested a very large sum of money on a German man who wanted to set up business in the new world - he was Ludwig’s brother, that’s how we became acquainted. He was killed there and all his money disappeared, no doubt into the hands of black market dealers and slave traders. I was still well-off, however I fell into depression. The real fall came when I thought I fell in love.” Francis said this in a monotone, but his eyes betrayed his anger and sorrow.  
“She was a beautiful woman, Hungarian in descent. She made me swoon. We were planning to get married. I trusted her and showed her my safe and combination, in the event of an emergency. One day I wake up and she’s gone, taking all my money with her. The furniture was smashed and scratched…. I was living in a mansion, but I couldn’t even afford a loaf of bread.” Francis paused for a moment.

“So I decided to come to England, steal myself a fortune and settle down peacefully for the rest of my days. I had successfully cheated my way into a large sum of money, and ah, done away with the previous owner of said riches - which was already being sent to France - and was on my way home when I ran into you. It was pure bad luck that I had chosen to pinch some jewellery on my way through town - otherwise I am sure I would not have been recognised and have been sent on my way.” Francis didn’t seem angry at Arthur for slowing his escape from England. In fact he seemed almost amused.  
“Bloody hell, you’re absolutely insane.” Arthur breathed, to Francis’s surprise.  
“You were born rich and you throw it away by becoming a thief? You’re as mad as a hatter.” Francis smiled sadly.  
“I see the error of my ways now. But what is done is done.” He muttered. Arthur sighed. What on Earth had he got himself into?


	5. Welcome To Wendlebury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis tries to steal some bread.

“There’s nowhere quite like Wendlebury.” Francis sighed, inhaling deeply.  
“And if we pass through quickly, we’ll reach Oxford before sundown.” He continued, a spring in his step as he and Arthur walked into the small town.  
“You’ve certainly done a lot of travelling in England.” Arthur commented. Arthur didn’t have the slightest clue where Oxford or Brighton was, yet here was Francis, a frenchman, approximating walking times between small towns!  
“Ah, well, it is a beautiful country.” Francis cooed. Arthur groaned.  
“Half of it smells like a pig’s arse and the other half is full of fat-bellied rich pigs. No matter where you go, you can’t get away from pigs in England.” Arthur muttered. France was probably full of pigs as well - except the french pigs would wear ascots. Francis ignored him.  
“How about you find something to do while I acquire some bread.” Francis suggested sweetly. Arthur spat back something concerning the validity of Francis’s lineage, but obediently wandered off to find somewhere to sit and wait for Francis to, as he oh-so-elegantly put it, ‘acquire’ something to eat. Jesus, if the man was any more delicate he’d snap in half if a feather touched him.

Slumping down on a seat in what Arthur supposed was the town square, he watched the people of the town go about their business. A young man, no older than Arthur was, carried a white chicken in a crude wooden cage. A burly red-haired man sat with a red-haired child, playing with him. It was an endearing sight, one that Arthur didn’t often see. Growing up he’d been yelled at and beaten by his father, made to beg and steal as soon as he was old enough, which was when he was six. Then his father had fallen prey to some disease or other, kicked the bucket and left him alone to fend for himself. What a good father he had. That was all in the past, however. He had vowed never to become like his father. It was best just to forget about him. That's what he told himself. Sticks and stones may break your bones, but abusive fathers will never really leave you.

 

“Thief!” A woman’s shrill cry snapped him out of his thoughts and he stood up with a start.  
“Francis, you twit!” He hissed under his breath, racing towards the voice. Darting down an alleyway, he saw Francis running towards him with a loaf of freshly baked bread in his hand. Idiot! Couldn't he do anything right?  
“Run, Arthur!” He hissed. Arthur yelped and ran after him, both of them sprinting across the square. They would easily escape if one lady was all they had to run from. ack! A hand grabbed the back of Arthur’s shirt and pulled him off the ground. He was spun around and the front of his shirt was grabbed, a fist digging into his throat and making breathing difficult. He was face to face with a furious , but not the one he’d seen before. This one was barely an adult, but was much larger than Arthur.  
“We’ve caught a rat, father.” The redhead sneered, spraying saliva all over Arthur’s face. Arthur squirmed and scratched, but he wasn’t nearly strong enough to get away.  
“Mon dieu, let me go, you peasant!” Francis growled, clearly having been caught in the act of stealing bread.  
“Looks like someone needs to be taught a lesson.” The man holding Arthur sneered. From behind Arthur there came a gentle feminine gasp.  
“F-Francis…” What?!


	6. A Child Of Gold

“Amelia…” Arthur squirmed around in his vice-like grip to see what was happening, but before he could turn around he was roughly thrown to the ground.  
“Don’t try to escape, worm.” The redhead spat at him and Arthur muttered back a few insults of his own before looking to see what was happening. Francis was being held in a neck choke by the man Arthur had seen playing with a child before, but had a soft, confused expression instead of a oh-god-i-need-air one. He was staring at a quite attractive woman with golden hair, a blue dress and a murderous scowl.

“Francis Bonnefoy, how dare you show your face here?!” She yelled, a child hiding behind her back.  
“I promised you death should you ever return!” She was screaming now, her face tinged purple and tears welling in her eyes.  
“Our son, Francis! Did you ever think about him?” The boy behind her peeked out from behind the dress, golden locks framing his chubby face. Oh. What Francis had stolen was valuable. Francis looked shellshocked.  
“I- I thought- I thought I wouldn’t see you here… I thought you’d moved on… And I- If you hadn’t, I - wanted to see you again….” Francis spluttered, his calm demeanor slipping.

“I’m sorry Amelia, I’m so, so sorry!” He cried, scrabbling at the neck hold he was in.  
“Kill him. Kill him. I hate you, Francis. I hate you.” She picked up the child and quickly walked away, starting to sob.  
“N-no! Amelia!” Francis yelled, but the man holding him just tightened his grip.  
“What say ten lashes for both of them, then let the scrap go and snap the frog’s neck?” He roared, crushing Francis’s windpipe even tighter.  
“No! Let him go!” Arthur yelled, powerless to help as the other burly redhead watched over him.  
“Time to have some fun, Eric.” The man holding Francis growled with a menacing glint in his eye.  
“I’ve been wanting to do this to the little frog ever since he ran off six years ago.”

 

Arthur was used to feeling shitty. Malnutrition, fever, hypothermia. He eternally had a cold. He could handle that. This, however, was a new level of shitty. Hanging from his hands half a metre above the ground from a tree, bare chested and about to be whipped. And all because of a sentimental fucking frenchman. God fucking dammit. Francis was stupider than he had previously thought. This was, in fact, the stupidest thing anybody that Arthur knew had ever done. Francis stood near to him, looking horrified, hands tied behind his back. Good fucking luck getting out of this one, Francis.

 

“Don’t do this to Arthur, he’s not at fault, please!” Francis begged Eric, who snorted.  
“Is he your latest whore? Bloody homosexual.” Eric growled. Francis spat at him.  
“Well, Harold? Care to do the honours?” Eric said with a smirk, throwing the horse whip to whom Arthur now saw was his brother. At least he wasn’t about to be humiliated in front of the whole town - the two brothers had dragged Arthur and Francis to a field nearby, probably for easy disposal. Goddamit Francis.

Harold gripped the whip and walked around to be behind Arthur. Arthur closed his eyes tightly, but said nothing. THWACK! He couldn’t help but scream, his back blossoming into fiery pain. His shoulder flared up too, making him writhe in agony. He heard either Eric or Harold laugh heartily, and Francis yell in french.

THWACK! Arthur’s throat was already hoarse from screaming. He was crying now. He was ashamed of being calling a whore, he was ashamed of being whipped, he was in excruciating pain, he was ashamed of Francis seeing him like this. And he was powerless. Not like that was new. But he still hated being helpless. 

THWACK! He could feel himself starting to black out. Good. He wouldn’t feel the rest.

He regained consciousness, unfortunately, after they’d tossed him to the ground. His back was on fire, and if he still had his voice he would have screamed to high hell and back. His vision was blurry but he could see Francis being dragged towards the tree. Before he blacked out again he saw a glint of metal, and heard a yell that definitely wasn’t from Francis.


	7. A Woman?

Where was he? Black mist surrounded him, distorting the houses leaning into the thin alleyway. A man stood in front of him, with a top hat and a whip in his hands.  
“Good to see you again, son.” The man rasped.  
“Father?” Arthur whispered, reaching out to him. His father smiled.  
“You’ve been a bad, bad boy, Arthur. You didn’t bring any money home.” He growled, stepping forward and raising the whip high. Arthur tried to recoil, but he couldn’t move.  
“Arthur… Arthur… Arthur..”

 

“Arthur, mon cher, it’s all right….” Arthur’s eyes slowly opened, the world fuzzy around him. His back felt raw and painful.  
“Calm down, it was just a dream…” He blinked and his vision cleared. He could now see Francis looking down on him with a concerned expression. He was in a small but cozy room, in a wonderfully soft bed.  
“W-where…” Arthur looked around worriedly. Everything ached and he had no idea where he was or what had happened.  
“It’s alright, Arthur. We’re in the house of a very kind woman who means us no harm. You’ve been asleep for a very long time….” Francis’s reassurances assuaged Arthur, but he was still full of questions.  
“You’re an absolute wanker.” He managed to mumble. Francis looked at him, eyes brimming with guilt.  
“I don’t expect you to forgive me, my friend…” Arthur tried to stay awake, but darkness was beginning to overcome his vision. He closed his heavy eyelids and drifted into sleep once again.

 

When he woke again, there was a different person in the room. He felt much better and managed to squirm into a sitting position. There were bandages wrapped around his chest and back, and he was wearing a loose nightshirt along with his own trousers. There was a woman opening the blinds of the room. Mousy brown hair framed her pale, petite face. She was clothed in a pumpkin-orange dress, which was an unusual but not unlikeable colour. She glanced at him and smiled.

 

“I am Audra. I am glad that you are awake.” Her english was somewhat faltering and heavily accented with some baltic tongue, but her voice was sweet and calming.  
“You have been asleep for several days.” Arthur looked at her gratefully.  
“Thank you for accomodating us.” He said, squinting a little as a pulled-back curtain bathed him with light.  
“It is no problem!” She cried.  
“It is awful that you were, ah, jumped, by a gang of thieves!” Arthur’s blood began to boil. Francis never told the damn truth, did he? Not to him, not to anyone. And now he had scars, red and long, to show for his trust in the slimey ratbag.  
“You owe your life to that french gentleman you are with.” His infuriated thoughts were interrupted by Audra, who was now sitting gently on the side of the bed.  
“He came to my doorstep carrying you over his shoulder…. You looked half dead, poor thing. He didn’t leave your bedside for a night and a day.” She said. Arthur began to feel slightly guilty for the hatred he felt towards Francis. But only slightly.

“Yes. Ah. Well. Where is he now?” He asked.  
“He has fallen asleep at my table!” She laughed, seeming to find looking after the two men to be quite entertaining.  
“Thank you very much for all you have done for us. We must not burden you any longer.” Arthur said, slowly clambering out of the bed. His back and shoulder were still stinging and tender, but he really wanted to yell at Francis for being a twat.  
“Oh- if you are sure you are well enough-” Audra said worriedly, aiding him out from under the covers.  
“Yes, thank you.” Arthur said politely, wobbling out of the room. His legs felt like they were jelly, but he was going to scream at Francis to high hell if it killed him.  
“A-alright…” Audra trailed after him, gently helping him through the doorway. 

Arthur slowly walked down the small, light hallway before finding himself in a comfortable but somewhat small kitchen. Spices hung from the low ceiling and yellow light filtered in from a door which Arthur assumed was the main one. Francis sat at a table tapping nervously. When he saw Arthur and Audra he stood up with a start.  
“Arthur-” He began, but faltered after Arthur gave him an infuriated glare. Audra made a chirping noise.  
“Well! I need to go feed the chickens. Don’t even think about leaving before I’ve come back and said goodbye!” She excused herself with more pleasantries, closing the door with a quiet creak. Arthur stared at Francis. Francis stared back.


	8. A startling discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis has a confession.

“Arthur… I…” Francis started, but Arthur interrupted him.  
“You led me somewhere you knew wasn’t safe. Somewhere we were sure to be killed. You put our - my - life in danger, because you wanted to see some girl you fucked.” Arthur’s voice was icy cold.  
“And now I’ll have the scars. Because I trusted you, Francis.” Tears welled in his eyes. Francis stammered something in french.  
“Mon cher-”

“Don’t call me that! I’m not your anything!” Arthur yelled. Francis looked shattered.  
“I never meant for you to get hurt. Arthur, I’m so sorry. I care for you so much, it hurt to see you injured. I am so flawed… You are a candle of light in my dark, depressing life.” Francis murmured. Arthur bit his lip. He had thought yelling at Francis would make him feel better. Instead, seeing Francis so broken made him feel worse.  
“I hope you can forgive me, Arthur…” Francis said, taking a step forward. Arthur didn’t back away from him, instead finding himself compelled to move towards Francis. They stood close, noses nearly touching.  
“Because…. Arthur….” Francis hesitated. His cerulean eyes captivated Arthur, drawing him in.

 

“I love you.” His heart skipped a beat. Francis gently held Arthur’s hands.  
“And without you my life would not be worth living.” Francis closed his eyes, tears webbing his eyelashes. Arthur was silent for a second. Then he moved forward and kissed Francis. Their lips interlocked and Arthur felt something stirring in him. A warmth and love he had never felt before. He never wanted to stop kissing, but eventually Francis leant back and inhaled sharply, looking almost a little dazed.

“I love you too.” Arthur muttered, a blush rising in his cheeks.   
“And I forgive you. You’re a twat, you have a soft heart and you’re an idiot. but I forgive you.” He added, sniffling a bit. He was putting the old adage of ‘the english stiff upper lip’ to shame. Francis wiped a tear from Arthur’s cheek and smiled warmly.

“I’m glad we got thrown in jail together.” He said with a chuckle. Arthur nodded, tears now flowing freely down his cheeks. He’d never been loved. Oh, well, he’d had a bit of fun with the barmaids at the town pubs. But never actually loved. His father certainly hadn’t loved him. He’d never known his mother. Just him against the world. But now there was Francis. Francis, the thief, the murderer, the man who’d lost everything and knew how he felt. Francis, with his frilly mud-stained ascot and his little ponytail. Francis, with his charming smile and hidden broken heart. Francis. Who loved him. And he loved Francis back.


	9. Red ribbons

“Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle Audra.” Francis gently kissed Audra’s hand, then smiled and started to walk away with Arthur trailing after.  
“Sudie! Ah, Francis?” She called, and Francis looked behind him.  
“Have I seen you before somewhere?” She asked, nose crinkled in thought. Francis smiled warmly.  
“I do not think so, mademoiselle. But it has been a pleasure meeting you.” He replied. Audra giggled and waved them away.  
“Good luck on your journey!” She called, before walking inside her small house and gently closing the door.

“Meeting her was a stroke of luck.” Arthur reflected, adjusting his new top. Audra had given Arthur a new top, Francis a red ribbon for his ponytail (dear god, it was now appallingly feminine) and a satchel which contained food and a few odds and ends, which Francis carried slung over his shoulder. Francis had tried to refuse it, but Audra had been very firm. They were now back to walking along the desolate country roads, although now Arthur’s injuries forced them to go at a meandering pace. Every step rekindled the burning soreness in his back, the memories of it preying on his mind and making him quiet and more sensitive than usual. At the present moment they were wandering through a forest, the path faint but well walked.

 

“If we almost die going through a town as small as Wendlebury, how come I’ve never heard of you before?” Arthur asked Francis curiously. Francis raised his eyebrows.  
“I, too, am surprised you have not heard about me. My face must be plastered on every tavern and lamp-post from here to Paris.” He replied, somewhat narcissistically. Arthur didn’t really pay attention to ‘wanted’ posters, or the gossip in the pubs. He was usually too busy stealing a wallet or running away from a policeman to stop and peruse them. Arthur shrugged in response.  
“I see now why we don’t walk the main roads.” He murmured. 

“But how in the name of god are we going to get on a ship to go over the English channel without getting caught?” He asked worriedly. The ghost of a smirk played on Francis’s lips.  
“The friend that is getting us down to Brighton is a well-off man, and owns a ship there. He will take us across.” He answered. Arthur snorted.  
“Tell me about this ‘friend’ of yours.” He inquired. He stooped down to pick up a pebble and grunted in pain as he straightened back up. He’d forgotten how much it hurt to bend his back.

“His name is Lukas Bondevik. Scandinavian, rich. Rather emotionless. He sells ships with his ‘best friend’-” Francis raised his eyebrows to signify they were rather closer than that- “-Mathias Koehler. He is very loud. And quite good looking.” Arthur glared at Francis, who grinned back. Arthur threw the pebble at him, hitting his shoulder.  
“What did Audra put in that bag, anyway?” Arthur questioned. Francis pulled it around his shoulder and began to rummage about in it.

“We have…. Two wrapped loaves of bread, I think this is some cheese, a.. head of cauliflower? We’ll have to eat that before it goes bad. A penknife, a little note in a language I can’t read, and…. That’s it.” Arthur didn’t know what cauliflower was, but he was too proud to ask.  
“Better than a poke in the eye with a blunt stick.” Arthur said, hopping over a root. The scenery was starting to change; the brooding pine trees were replaced by a wild field slanting upwards. Hares ran for cover as they emerged from the forest. As they came to the top of the hill Arthur gasped.

“Wow..” He breathed. All around them was nature. Behind them, the forest sprawled, and behind that was farmland. In front of them, the field continued almost to the horizon, which was a small hill. All around them was rolling hills.  
“Its beautiful.” Arthur mumbled, trying to take it all in. He started to laugh - not his usual snicker, but a full hearty laugh, full of happiness.  
“It’s beautiful!” He yelled, hugging Francis. Francis looked at him in shock, then hugged him back.  
“I’m so glad I met you…”


	10. Cauliflower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur eats cauliflower.

“Why the fuck do people eat this?” Arthur complained, unhappily chewing at a head of cauliflower. Although Francis had cooked it to the best of his ability when they had stopped for a rest a short while ago, Arthur had decided he hated the odd vegetable.   
“Because it is healthy.” Francis responded. He was delicately nibbling on a piece himself. The sun was in the middle of setting, casting long dark shadows across everything and staining the world red. The scenery hadn’t changed - rolling plains covered in wildflowers and the odd gnarled oak.

 

“I’ve lived this long without Cauliflower, I think I’ll survive the rest of my life without it as well.” Arthur said waspishly. Francis snorted.  
“You are skin and bone, mon cher - perhaps the chou-fleur would do you good. I am quite certain if the wind changed direction you would fall over.” He said smartly. In response Arthur punched Francis’s shoulder. This probably would have escalated into a play fight that would send cauliflower everywhere, but Francis glanced ahead and cried joyously.

 

“This is the place we are meant to meet Lukas and Mathias!” He said, pointing at a large house. It stood by itself, facing a thin mud road. Arthur and Francis were viewing it from the front and Arthur was rather impressed by it. Its pastel shade of yellow was a flame orange in the setting sun and the tulips outside it were vibrant and beautiful. The house seemed to be rectangular, with two stories. After gaping at it for a while, the two men started to trot towards it.

 

“So you’re telling me that you planned this trip down to the letter so much that you knew how to navigate your way to this house without so much as a map?!” Arthur cried. Francis smirked.  
“Don’t be silly, I have a map.” He replied.   
“Well why didn’t you ever say so?” Arthur growled.  
“It never came up in conversation.” Francis said in a careless manner which made Arthur itch to punch him in the gut.  
“Well let me see it sometime… Wait, what if they aren’t there? We’ve been held up at Audra’s… You couldn’t possibly work out how long it would take you to get here.” Arthur queried. Francis nodded.  
“It is a good thing, then, that this is Lukas and Mathias’s country house, is it not?” He replied.  
“Stop being a smartarse, Francis, you frog.” Arthur grumbled. As the sun finally sank beneath the horizon the two walked towards the lonely mansion, which was beginning to descend into the darkness of night.


	11. House of vikings

Damn it. Francis loved to omit details just so he could reveal them with a flourish, making whoever he was talking to feel like an idiot. Bloody typical. Arthur was still fuming when he aggressively knocked on the door, the blue paint of which was cracked and flaked.  
“The idea is to alert them of our presence, not to smash the door down.” Francis smirked. Arthur glared at him. Before he could reply the door opened with a creak. 

Arthur found himself being stared at by a rather emotionless pair of pale blue eyes. The man watching him was rather wiry, with golden blonde hair kept out of his face by a small cross clip.   
“Francis, who is this?” The man’s voice was strangely orotund, almost mismatched with his face.   
“Lukas! It has been too long! This is Arthur, he is travelling with me. I hope that is not of any concern?” Francis shook Lukas’s hand eagerly. Lukas glanced at Francis.  
“It is no problem.” He replied, backing into the house. 

Lukas’s house was regal but strange. Although the rooms and walls themselves were normal enough, what was inside them was sometimes bizarre. In the hall they were in, a massive battle axe hung from a wall and a staircase looked like it had been plonked where the other wall should have been. All the furniture was mismatched and the faded colours created the feeling of dissonance and something missing, a hole which could not be filled.  
“FRANCIS!” A yell from beside Arthur surprised him. Looking up, he saw a tall man wearing a black and red outfit standing at the top of the odd staircase.   
“Mathias!” Francis cried happily. Mathias clomped down the stairs and crushed Francis in a massive hug. He was a wild-looking man, with spiky blond hair and fierce blue eyes.  
“Who’s eyebrows over here?” Arthur stared at Mathias in shocked silence. His eyebrows weren’t that big..  
“I’m.. uh.. Arthur.” He said, gasping as he too was squashed in a hug.  
“Good ta meet ya! You n’ Francis are in cahoots, eh?” Mathias made a few suggestive noises and gestures. Arthur blushed.  
“Don’t be a bloody git!” He snapped before realising what he’d said. His blush increased, horrified that he’d been so rude. Mathias stared at him for a moment, then laughed heartily.  
“He’s got some fire in him!” He cried, stomping off down the corridor. Was it possible for that man to ever be quiet? Lukas muttered something in a foreign tongue, then addressed Arthur and Francis.  
“We’ve already eaten tonight, but there are a good amount of leftovers for you. I didn’t know Arthur was coming, so there’s only one bed. But I don’t think that’s going to be much of a problem.” He raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. At this point Arthur was positively purple.  
“Merci. You are a good friend.” Francis smiled thankfully and hugged Lukas, his gentle embrace a stark difference to Mathias’s bearhugs. Lukas nodded and disappeared as soon as Francis let go.  
“I’m off to find the kitchen then.” Arthur stated. His stomach wasn’t nearly satisfied with a dinner of cauliflower. Francis nodded.  
“It’s this way…” And so they walked through the mansion, feeling dwarfed by its stature and regality.


	12. An egg by any other name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are discussed over a meal of... eggs?

Arthur quietly crept into the guest bedroom, cringing as the door creaked open. He had spent more time in the kitchen eating than Francis had - when one has been malnourished for most of their life, one finds that when surrounded by food they simply cannot stop eating. So he was feeling rather bloated as he tiptoed towards the bed. Shedding his shoes, he grimaced at the sight ahead of him. Francis was already asleep and snuffling contently every so often, somewhat on the left side of the bed. Getting in without waking up Francis would be a struggle. With utmost care, he lifted the sheets and inserted a leg. Then the other. Satisfied that Francis’s sweet snuffles continued undisturbed, he burrowed into the bed. Even under the covers, it was rather chilly. The bed was soft and comfortable, however. Arthur quickly fell into a deep sleep, a sleep full of dreams about adventures and pirates and gold.

“Mm..” Arthur didn’t want to open his eyes. He was warm and comfortable where he was. Something beside him was warming him, but he couldn’t be bothered to open his eyes and find out. Instead he lay there awake for a few minutes, content. Eventually he forced his leaden eyelids open and glanced at what was emanating heat beside him. Oh, god. Francis’s arm was draped over him and Francis’s chest was beside his face. Arthur now realised he was curled up next to Francis - he must have migrated towards him in his sleep. How would he get out without waking up Francis?! As slowly as possible, he tried to lift Francis’s arm. The snuffling stopped. Arthur squirmed away from Francis as fast as possible.  
“I-I must have moved while I slept-” He stammered. Francis smiled sleepily.  
“Don’t be such a pom…” He murmured, drawing himself closer to Arthur. Arthur’s blushing increased but he didn’t complain, finding he quite enjoyed snuggling Francis. Alright, he extremely enjoyed snuggling Francis.  
“You two get up to much last night?” Arthur sat bolt upright in shock, finding Lukas standing at the door. How in god’s name had he got in so silently?! Arthur made a strangled yelping sound.  
“Lukas, I was having such a wonderful time. You always have to walk in at such unfortunate moments…” Francis muttered, clambering out of the bed. His hair hung around his face, not in a ponytail for once. But the first thing he reached for was the red ribbon lying on the bedside table, and thus the disgustingly feminine ponytail returned to its former glory.  
“Breakfast is ready if you two are finished making love.” Lukas said in a monotone. Arthur couldn’t decipher whether he was joking or not.  
“Oui, oui, whatever.” Francis yawned.  
“Shall we go eat whatever hell Mathias has tried to cook today then?”

Francis had not been exaggerating. What sat in front of Arthur may once have been an egg, but now it was a black gooey slop. Poking it nervously, Arthur glanced with fear-filled eyes at Lukas. Was he really expected to eat this? Lukas tossed him a bread roll from his own plate. Thankfully nibbling on the somewhat dry roll, he watched as the grand cook himself stomped into the room and crashed down into a chair.  
“Right then!” Mathias said with a grin.  
“Let’s go over the details then, since eyebrows over here doesn’t know ‘em.” He said. Arthur didn’t like the nickname ‘eyebrows’, but he didn’t argue.  
“Right then.” Mathias repeated.  
“We’re going ta head down ta Brighton on the carriage. That’ll take a day. Hopefully we’ll get to the docks by sundown. Then we get ta the Enhjørning and sail ta France!” Mathias made it sound very straightforward. Lukas rolled his eyes.  
“All the docks are on the lookout for you. There’s been another burst of security after you killed that policeman on your way here.” Lukas’s eyes betrayed a look of ‘you’re an idiot’. Arthur’s mind leapt back to the encounter, the adrenaline-fuelled confusion and terror he had felt. Punching Francis after that had been quite cathartic. 

 

“We’ll sneak you on after midnight. The Enhjørning is small but will still be stopped by search patrols before we can leave. You two will hide in the brig until they leave. Then, when we arrive at Calais, Berwald will pick us up.” Lukas finished.  
“Who’s Berwald?” Arthur questioned.  
“A friend.” Lukas replied shortly. Jesus. How many ‘friends’ did these people have and which ones were merely paid bucket loads to help them? Or perhaps this was a normal amount of friends. He had a sort-of friend, the quiet mining kid Matthew. He would give Matthew stolen toys and trinkets and Matthew would give him some of his food rations. Matthew could be dead now for all he knew, crushed under fallen rocks or suffocated by the thick dust.  
“Alright. Are we done? Then gather what you need, we’re going ta Brighton!”


	13. Brighton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis and Arthur go for a swim.

Arthur didn’t trust horses. Especially not the massive plough horse that was plodding along in front of the carriage he was perched in, clinging to the slat that was protecting him from falling off the carriage for dear life. Francis and Lukas were opposite him speaking in hushed voices. He didn’t really care to listen in, but the occasional fragment caught his ears. “No space…” “..... we can’t…” “..only three…” Whatever they were talking about, it was making Francis angry and Lukas vaguely irritated. Arthur sighed, zoning out as farmland rolled by. Eventually he dozed off to the rhythm of horse steps and the lullaby of gentle wind.

“Mon cher…. Wake up…” Arthur groaned.  
“Bloody hell…” He grumbled, blinking as soft yellow light filtered through his eyelids. It was late afternoon and he was positively starving. Francis gave him a hand out of the carriage.  
“Where are we?” Arthur asked.  
“Welcome ta Brighton!” Mathias cried with a sweep of his arm. Brighton was not as spectacular as Arthur had envisioned it. The port they were on smelled of fish and alcohol. To the left of them, cramped pubs and stores fought for space and drunk fishermen bumbled along the dung-filled road. To the right of them were mighty ships, bobbing up and down on a celestine sea. Lukas and Mathias were conversing over a wrinkled map nearby.  
“Francis, you look worried.” Arthur observed. The frenchman glanced at him and smiled.  
“Just anticipation, mon cher.” Was the cheerful - if forced - reply. Arthur grinned.  
“You, the great Francis idiot-efoy, have finally met your match in a boat trip!” He teased. Francis pouted.  
“Oh, oui.. I forgot.. I saved you some lunch.” Francis said, scooping up a cloth bag from the carriage. He handed it to Arthur who quickly opened it. The aroma of bread and meat was so wonderful he nearly fainted.  
“God, you’re a life saver.” Arthur barely finished his cry before he stuffed the bread into his mouth.  
“Pig…” Francis replied, looking away. 

Having finished wolfing down the food, Arthur tapped Francis on the shoulder.  
“Where are we going now?” He asked.  
“Lukas and Mathias are off to get drunk at a pub somewhere, but I was thinking it would be nice if we spent the time somewhere peaceful until our departure?” Francis suggested.  
“And I was so looking forward to getting absolutely wasted.” Arthur teased, walking with him along the cobbled street.

It took them a good fifteen minutes to find a relatively quiet part of the port. Where they were, the wood was rotting and seagulls fought over fish skeletons. They sat with their shoes off and their trousers rolled up, their feet dangling into the cool sparkling water.  
“Hey, Arthur…” Francis murmured. Arthur looked up at him.  
“What is it?” He asked.  
“We have a slight problem with boat size. We can’t take more than three people over at once. They weren’t expecting you.” Francis said with a smile.  
“But don’t worry, you and Mathias and I will go over and Lukas will stay here. So everything will work out alright.” He continued. Francis’s blue eyes looked so beautiful, with his golden locks framing his smiling face. Arthur found himself lost in Francis’s eyes, captivated by their beauty.  
“Francis, you- huh?” Arthur looked past Francis and saw Mathias and Lukas standing on the road, so far away he could only just make out who they were. He waved.  
“Are we late for the boat? Mathias and Lukas are here.” He said with raised eyebrows to Francis. It was then that he saw the figures walking down the pier towards them.  
“What the hell are they doing here?” Arthur grumbled irritably, taking his feet out of the ocean and standing up. Francis slowly did the same.  
“They don’t look happy.” Arthur said nervously. Francis’s eyes widened, then narrowed into slits.

 

“They’ve brought the fucking cops!” Francis said in furious disbelief.  
“Lukas, c'est des conneries! Nique ta mere!” He roared, then grabbed Arthur’s shoulders.  
“Swim for the pier over, then run like hell. Meet me where we first got off the carriage.” Francis demanded, then leapt into the ocean. Arthur did the same, hearing the first few yells just before his head went under water. Oh god. He didn’t know how to swim. Gasping and flailing, he managed to keep his head out of the water, but he wasn’t making any progress forwards.  
“Francis! Help!” He yelled, coughing up water. Francis looked behind him and started to swim back. A cramp shot through Arthur’s leg, making him fall under the water again. His limbs were freezing but his chest burned. Which way was up? He couldn’t breathe. Someone grabbed his hand and he gratefully latched on. His head broke the surface and he gasped, choking on water.  
“Francis-” He looked at his saviour, but it wasn’t Francis.  
“Lads! I got ‘im!” The burly policeman roared, holding Arthur’s arm so hard it felt as if it would snap.  
“Francis!” Arthur called weakly, but he couldn’t see him. There was nothing he could do. With a last spluttering cough he stopped fighting against the policeman’s grip and let himself be dragged towards the shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "c'est des conneries" means 'this is bullshit', and "nique ta mere" means 'Fuck your own mother'. Do not say these to your french teacher.


	14. No

“Tell me.”  
“No.”  
“Look, you scrawny piece of filth, either you tell me where Francis Bonnefoy is heading, or I beat the shit out of you until you beg for death.” The red-faced cop snarled. When he had been walked into the cell, Arthur had seen a piece of paper with ‘Máximo’ on it, which he assumed to be the dark-skinned policeman’s name.  
“Fuck you.” He replied, straining against the shackles which bound his hands to the wall above his head. Barechested, he couldn’t even move his legs, which were chained to the wall as well.  
“Alright then.” Máximo smiled slightly. He went out of the cell and out of Arthur’s line of vision. When he came back he held a red hot poker in his hands. Arthur squirmed and pressed himself against the wall, helpless as Máximo walked closer.  
“Where is Francis Bonnefoy?” Máximo demanded.  
“I don’t know.” Arthur tried.  
“You do, and you will tell me.” Máximo said, pressing the poker against Arthur’s right shoulder, right where his somewhat healed axe wound was. Arthur couldn’t help but scream, agony spiking through him as his flesh sizzled.  
“Tell me!”  
“No!” The poker was pushed harder against his skin. the next hour was a blur of pain, Arthur refusing to say anything except ‘no’. After one hour, three minutes and twenty-five seconds, Arthur blacked out.

 

A thud made Arthur wake up, but he didn’t open his eyes. He groaned in agony, unable to keep himself up. His knees were buckled and his shackled arms were all that kept him upright, his head hanging. All he could hear was a furious buzzing and the blood in his ears. Someone gently touched his wrist and he sobbed in pain.  
“No… No…. No..” He pleaded. Then he felt his left arm come free of the shackles. Then his right arm. He would have toppled over had the person not caught him.  
“Please, oh god… No.. No…” He repeated pitifully, feeling himself being carried in someone’s arms. Every movement sent pain lacing through his body. He finally forced his eyes open, the light burning his retinas. Looking down at him worriedly was Francis, battered and bloody, blood dripping from his lip onto Arthur’s already blood-encrusted chest.  
“F-Francis…” Arthur whispered.  
“It’s alright, mon amour, it’s alright, I’m here now, you’re safe now.” Francis’s voice sounded far away.  
“Mon dieu, this is my fault, this is all my fault…” They were outside now, the smoky night air burning Arthur’s wounds. He had no idea how long Francis carried him, except that every step was fresh torment. He fell asleep again, looking up at Francis’s worried face.  
“I love you..” He murmured, his eyes fluttering closed.  
“I love you too, mon cher.” Francis replied.


	15. Dawn of a new day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur has nightmares.

Running, running, always running. His eyes dart from side to side feverishly, trying to see in the darkness. ‘Arthur, Arthur..’ Francis’s voice curls around him. He is crying. He can’t stop the tears, running down his face and dropping loudly to the ground. ‘Francis?!’ He calls into the darkness. ‘Arthur… Arthur?’

“Arthur, mon amour, you’re finally awake.” Arthur’s eyes refused to open, but he woke slowly. He could feel himself crying.  
“No, no, no.. No..” He couldn’t stop himself from repeating this, terrified of the pain he was prepared to receive.  
“Arthur, take a deep breath. Open your eyes. You’re safe.” With a deep ragged breath, Arthur forced his eyes open. The dim light burned and everything was fuzzy. A few more shallow breaths and the world was in focus. The darkness coming from the one small window in the room signaled that it was still nighttime. Had he slept only a few hours, or several days? Francis was sitting beside the bed he was in. His body ached, his throat burned, he felt like death. Lifting his head up slightly, he looked at his arms. They were raw and blistered, lines of blood trailing down his burnt skin.

“Oh my god, Arthur..” Francis was crying now, his head in his hands.  
“I never meant for this, oh god, I always get you hurt, I’m so sorry.” He sobbed, his hair falling out of its ponytail. He hadn’t washed the blood off himself, and his tears mingled with the dried paths of blood on his hands.  
“Francis..” Arthur rasped.  
“I love you.” He breathed, swallowing with a wince. Francis finally composed himself, bottom lip still trembling.  
“I don’t deserve your love, mon cher.” Francis murmured, gently placing a kiss on Arthur’s forehead.  
“Now sleep. I’m here to protect you.”

Arthur’s dreams were nightmares. He was being hanged, held up above a black murky sea. All around him, viking ships burst into flames. He choked and gasped but his arms were too heavy to move. As he sunk into oblivion the last thing he saw was Francis desperately reaching out towards him, his red ribbon curling around Arthur then receding, fading into the eternal blackness.

When he woke again, Francis was staring out the window. The sky outside was slowly becoming lighter, although still very dark. Arthur’s dry coughing caught Francis’s attention and he quickly walked to Arthur’s side. Arthur saw that the blood had been cleaned from his and Francis’s skin, but Francis looked tired and anxious.  
“Arthur..” Francis paused, collecting his thoughts.  
“We have no money. We have nowhere to go. If you left me and went to a small, out of the way village, you could live a peaceful life. With me, that peaceful life is not so certain.” He held Arthur’s hand gently. Arthur blinked.  
“I don’t care how dangerous being with you is. I’m not going anywhere without you.” He croaked. Francis smiled tiredly.  
“That is wonderful…” He murmured. For a minute, they stayed there, Francis holding Arthur’s hand. Then Francis started to snore, little snuffling noises. He’d fallen asleep still sitting up! Arthur managed a weak smile.  
“Wanker.” He whispered, letting his own eyes flutter closed.


	16. Fourteenth of July

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur gives a birthday present.

“You know what today is?” Francis asked. It was a beautiful spring day, the sun warming Arthur’s face as he lay on the cool grass. In front of him, Francis lazily twirled an apple by its stem. They were in the middle of a vast field, their village far away in the distance.  
“Saturday.” Arthur replied, sitting up. He knew what Francis meant, but played along. How long had they been living in this small town now? It had to be two years now. It wasn’t that hard of a life being a farmer in these parts. The ground was fertile and they were never lacking food to sell at the markets. But still, he cherished the afternoons he had off to spend with Francis.  
“It’s the fourteenth of July.” Francis continued, delicately placing the apple on the ground beside him.  
“So?” Arthur replied with a smile. Francis shifted over towards him.

“It’s my birthday.” Francis replied. His hand moved to Arthur’s arm, trailing up it to his shoulder. Arthur’s arms still bore the scars of their adventures. White marks and red lines, crisscrossed up his arms and chest. Darker, thicker red lines across his back. He didn’t like them, but Francis insisted they were just as beautiful as every other part of him. With a gentle shove Francis pushed Arthur onto his back, Francis’s hands to either side of Arthur’s head.  
“Oh dear, I’ve forgotten to give you a gift.” Arthur raised his eyebrows in pretend apology.  
“I'll give it to you now.” Arthur said, leaning in. Their lips touched. Arthur suddenly drew back.  
“You never gave me a gift on my birthday.” He complained. Francis raised an eyebrow.  
“When’s your birthday then?” He inquired, their noses almost touching, breath mingling.  
“I don’t know.” Arthur admitted.  
“How about I share yours?” he suggested with a smile.  
“Then this is my gift to you as well.” Francis replied, leaning in and kissing him. Francis’s arm trailed up Arthur’s back, over the dark red lines, holding him, caressing him. Arthur melted into his embrace. After an eternity of love and passion and happiness Francis pulled away and looked into Arthur’s eyes.  
“For some reason I’ve let myself become quite attached to you.” Arthur said with a sigh. Francis smirked.  
“And I to you. Funny how things work, isn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aah! It's finished! Thank you for reading this, it means a lot to me! I hope you liked it :D And if you left a comment I would be very grateful!


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